Coming out as an immigrant

I’ve long identified myself as an adoptee from Korea, but only recently have I come to acknowledge my identity as an immigrant. ‘Only recently’ being about four months. I think from my education and exposure to current events growing up, I learned to associate immigrants within certain contexts that did not include me. In eighth grade, we took a trip to Ellis Island and had learned its history in class. As I grew older, I became more aware of immigrants in modern day. Even now, I notice my hometown area continue to diversify as more immigrant families move in. In spite of my growing awareness, however, I just never connected to the notion of being an immigrant myself. Even if I was born outside of the United States, I assimilated so much that some days I don’t even legitimately feel Korean. My nationality is American and it is all I’ve known. Immigrant? Me? Are you sure?

The turning point came one day during my diversity & oppression class. Somehow we landed on the topic of whether or not people should have to learn English if they are to live in the US. A heated discussion began. The girl that sparked it all identified herself as an immigrant and a refugee from West Africa. Her family came to the US when she was 11 to escape warfare. She expressed a deep frustration and sadness at being forced to assimilate into an entirely new culture. Her family had little choice: leave everything you know behind or stay and risk death. They picked life at the loss of their first, only and most loved culture. I listened to the story, completely transfixed by my classmate’s pain. She was more than sad; she was downright bitter. She resented America for imposing its new language and lifestyle on her in the wake of such a traumatic move. Many classmates had a hard time accepting her words and some felt clearly burned by them. I felt burned, too, but in a way I never expected. Emotions had been building up inside me the entire class and when we let out, my friend Liz sat beside me on a bench and let me cry.

It took me days after the fact to realize that I was grieving. I am not a refugee. I did not have 11 years of another culture to recall like my classmate did. Our lives have been drastically different, and yet her emotions felt familiar to me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much our lives were shaped by cultural displacement. My departure from Korea was not a direct result of warfare, but I also had no say in the matter. What say does a six-month old baby have in who will care for her or where she will live? We both lost our first homes, our first cultures. And although we were both young at the time, age does not invalidate the impact of the loss. Even as adults, it is a loss we continue to live with. Because no matter how much we are forced to or even choose to assimilate, there is no denying that we were once a part of another country, born into another life. It perhaps is not the most tangible of losses to bear, but it is so very real. It is a loss that should be talked about without shame and without being minimized in gravity. I think one of the greatest cruelties a person can do another is to belittle their pain.

After that unforgettable class, I sought out my classmate and thanked her for everything she was brave enough to say. We hadn’t really spoken much before that, but I just had to break the ice. A number of classmates had been upset with her. I wanted her to know that I wasn’t. And that she had another immigrant in the class who had her back.

The face(s) of politics

Just wanted to share this article which was recently featured on Yahoo. It's about the rise of Indian American politicians and the notion of these individuals 'whitewashing' themselves vs. embracing their Indian identities. You know, I like the point that was made about the fact that the US currently has a black president named Barack Hussein Obama. There's absolutely much more work to be done, but that Obama is even in office right now does indicate progress. I personally feel that America is, overall, a largely conservative society that has not yet learned how to celebrate diversity. No, not acknowledge, or even accept, but celebrate. Differences = beautiful. They don't need to be painted over, but seen for what they are in all their glory. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

More substantial post to come in later days. Life's been rough lately and I'm just bouncing back into reality. Reader, whoever you are, I hope life is treating you well!

Soo vs. (insert anglicized name here)

Lately I’ve been debating whether or not to just use my first name in identifying myself on the blog. To be honest, using Soo has been a little weird for me. I initially opted to use it out of privacy, especially as I am one year of graduate school away from entering a profession which upholds boundaries about disclosing information and confidentiality. My name is not the most common of names for individuals my age and my odds of a future client stumbling upon this section of my life are probably very slim. Even so. I want to try to stick it out as Soo. I can’t help but get all symbolic on myself and wonder if there’s a discomfort in having people address me by a Korean name. I will openly admit that I haven’t ‘owned’ my identity as Korean for a large portion of my life. Calling myself Soo is like wearing a pair of shoes that don’t fit quite right, but I want to give them more time and see if they don’t break in a little.

I have noticed that a number of Korean adoptees (and perhaps other transnational adoptees as well?) legally change their name back to their name given at birth. I very much respect this choice and feel that people are entitled to define themselves the way they want to. They are taking back a piece of culture lost. In the case of my name, my parents actually wished to keep my Korean name as my first name. However, the adoption agency flat-out discouraged them and they relented. This truly bothers me. What right did that agency have to tell my parents what to do? The agency’s argument was that I needed a more anglicized name in order to ‘fit in’. Korean name = inferior, foreign, not American. Anglicized name = superior, assimilated, American. (They probably didn’t use those terms, but that is my blunt interpretation.) I don’t blame my parents for giving me the name I have. They still kept part of my Korean name, Soo Hyeon, as my middle name—a move the agency also did not support. Ultimately they took the ‘expert’ advice they were given, hoping it would give their daughter a more comfortable life. Who doesn’t want their child to feel accepted? I still disagree with what the agency told them, but truth be told, I do like my name. It was chosen by my late father and I intend to keep it, just as I also intend to keep Soo. Goodness knows what I’m going to do when I get married.